


why does an angel fall?

by QueenHarleyQuinn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's True Form (Supernatural), Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Episode: s04e22 Lucifer Rising, Falling In Love, Having Faith, Healing, Introspection, M/M, Oblivious, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sacrifice, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenHarleyQuinn/pseuds/QueenHarleyQuinn
Summary: "The moment Castiel saw Dean Winchester’s soul in Hell he understood the magnitude of Heaven’s plan. His soul, aching and raging but still intact, was important. Perhaps more important than anything that Castiel has ever touched. The thought flowed out of Castiel as he embraced the soul, carrying it close to him to keep it safe. As he charged through equal parts darkness and inferno - This is the most important thing I have ever touched."Castiel begins the process of understanding what falling means.(Season 4)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	why does an angel fall?

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is a S4 Castiel retrospective of sorts. I've been rewatching the series and season four really made me want to explore how Castiel balances faith and love, as well as the realization of who he has faith in and who he loves.  
> 2\. Unbeta'd! All errors are my own.

The memory of Lucifer falling was seared into Castiel’s mind for eons. The brilliancy of it, the unrelenting brightness as he - Morning Star, Light Bringer - was cast down. It was brighter than when God had formed the first light because this was a  _ burning _ kind of brightness. Lucifer’s blazing descent was not the gentle swell of suns and galaxies and beautiful, new creation. Lucifer flamed, his form glowing molten white in the center but shifting colors on the edges - unnamable colors, colors only perceivable by the heavenly host. Colors of death and agony and jealousy and rage, horrific and unnatural. Lucifer’s many eyes cried frightening, dazzling tears. His many wings burned, failing to shield himself as they caught fire. The feathers turned into ash and flake as his being was cast out. 

Witnessing this Castiel hadn’t felt anything. There hadn’t been any emotion attached to it, or if there was Castiel couldn’t recognize it as such. He wasn’t capable of it. He didn’t  _ know _ the language for such a thing thus couldn’t possibly think to explore it. The language hadn’t been crafted yet. The plans for it existed with God solely and it would be a gift for  _ man _ not for Heaven.

Other angels fell too, diving into the depths after Lucifer. The atmosphere thickened from their burning but even the great many of them - choosing to chase after him, choosing him over God - were not so vivid. Their flames were softer, flickering, and then gone. None could see the fallen ones after their exile.

In the beginning there weren’t very many thoughts inside Castiel. He  _ praised _ ; the way the roaring sea praises with white capped waves and churning motions. The way the water folds in on itself, the way one wave is not separate from another, not truly. He worshipped unyieldingly with the remaining heavenly host, beautiful and chaotic. These were the thoughts that had names - God is Good, God is Good, God is Good.

But still, he remembered. Castiel remembered the falling, the brightness. It’s simply that Castiel, with his iridescent wings and shapelessness and grace, could not possibly have a single idea about it. Not for billions of years.

The moment Castiel saw Dean Winchester’s soul in Hell he understood the magnitude of Heaven’s plan. His soul, aching and raging but still intact, was important. Perhaps more important than anything that Castiel has ever touched. The thought flowed out of Castiel as he embraced the soul, carrying it close to him to keep it safe. As he charged through equal parts darkness and inferno -  _ This is the most important thing I have ever touched _ .

The truth of that washed over Castiel too much, maybe. He could drown in it if he allowed himself the time, the pause between human heart beats. A stolen beat to feel the all consuming righteousness flowing out from the soul - reaching out, mingling with Castiel’s grace - an unstoppable current. Unceasing in it’s virtue, undoubtedly the singular pinprick of goodness in Hell prior to Castiel’s arrival. Yes, Castiel could soak in that. Submerged to never return.

He wouldn’t, of course - maybe the language for these things had become more apparent to the angel but it was still nearly incomprehensible to him. He wasn’t made for such purposes - no angel was but Castiel especially refused to believe that there was anything other than pure love and adoration in his actions. Reverence for the Father guided, every movement and every thought.

That must have settled it. It was true that Dean Winchester’s soul was the most important thing Castiel had ever touched but that was a Godly thing to think. It must have been. Because God created Castiel for this moment and that thought must have been part of the plan.

Castiel struck down every enemy in his way and Dean Winchester’s soul remained harbored under a protective wing. And then, finally, Castiel stood before Dean’s body.

He was silent as he approached the broken, bloodied being before him. Dean was suspended there and, from Castiel’s own doing, unconscious. It would be simpler this way - humans were too curious sometimes and ventured to look at things that they should not.

Gentle were the hands that freed Dean from his shackles and hooks and blades. It was careful work to save Dean without inflicting more pain. Castiel, too holy for Hell, could burn the flesh without meaning too. If his mind were to wander for a moment Castiel might forget that while the soul - the soul that grieves and cries and hurts and  _ yearns _ \- is pure. The body remains weak and sinful as any other. Castiel must touch in the briefest of ways; hold him without the pain and annihilation of total, divine absolution.

Dean’s body trembled as soul reunited with flesh. Castiel cradled him, despite the dirt and the blood and grime of forty years in hell. The majesty of witnessing the reunification between body and soul was well worth it. Castiel watched, rapt, as life - true and divine - renewed him. A glow to his cheeks, a warmth though his body. Dean rested in Castiel’s arms, his many arms, asleep and quiet but  _ alive _ with a spirit unlike any other.

Now to return him, to bring him out of this misery and torment. Back to walk the Earth.

But…

Castiel looked at the whole of him - the torn muscles that never healed, the damaged hearing from growing up around shotguns, the weakened liver, the bruises, the scars, he hurt, the anger, the desperation, the loneliness, the otherness. Everything. All of it. Castiel couldn’t look away, could never for a moment tear his sight from what he was holding.

Castiel reached out a hand and wondered - prayed, hoped - he was there to  _ save _ Dean Winchester, wasn’t he? And saving meant he must touch with the intent to heal, hold with the intent to forgive. He couldn’t undo it all. It would be undoing the work of God and undoing the very composition of the Michael Sword. But he could take away the aches in his knees, he could set broken bones correctly, he could take away the blur in his vision.

A palm from Castiel pressed to the tender shoulder of Dean Winchester. Thousands of hurts undone in a moment. In the space between human heartbeats. A tidal wave pours over Castiel but he only calls it justice, only names it  _ God’s Will _ . 

When it was done Castiel rose out of the pit with Dean Winchester in his arms and he declared;  _ Dean Winchester is Saved _ .

Dean Winchester stabbed him in the chest - there was a fluidity to it that came from the healing. The smoothness of how his muscles flexed and extended and moved without knots. He had a young man’s body again, the body he  _ should  _ have. Castiel could see, in the way Dean’s shoulders were squared and the way his eyes were glinting, that he could feel his newness. Something about that recognition - understanding a change and maybe even understanding that it was Castiel who had changed him - stirred Castiel as he removed the blade from his vessel.

Bobby Singer would take a swing at him and Castiel would catch the weapon without looking away from Dean. That, prolonged eye contact, didn’t have a name either. It was strange, Castiel knew what he was doing was strange, but Dean Winchester - the righteous man - was trying to kill him. A futile effort but one that set his soul on fire. That’s what Castiel couldn’t stop looking at; the illumination within the body. The anger, the distrust, the terror at seeing Castiel press two fingers to Bobby’s forehead and the  _ thud _ that sounded when Bobby fell.

But that kind of fear was common to humans in the presence of an angel. It was the glow beneath that. The flickering at the center, more real and more astounding than mankind’s first fire.

Love. 

There was still love in Dean Winchester. Despite it all. The howling winds outside wouldn’t shake it nor the shattered and sparkling lights above. Not the rattling of the barn nor the unflinching, almost unkind nature of Castiel’s visit. Dean Winchester was filled with love. A love he fostered and molded himself around, to protect and guard forever.

The love of his long dead mother, the woman who used to sing to him and ruffle his hair and hold him tight. The woman he never knew but always carried with him in the way he watched out for Sam. Him, Sam, the brother Dean had died for - the kind of sacrifice that Christ must understand. A kind of love that was never allowed to be selfish. He loved John - the man who was most responsible for the aches and pains of Dean’s body but, worse, the aches of his heart. The man who was less than a father.

Love. Love overflowing. Love like flood water rising, earthy and natural. Love the likes of which Castiel knew in scripture and remembered from the beginning but hadn’t witnessed in  _ thousands _ of years.

A dead language wanted to crawl out of Castiel’s mouth - but not his mouth, couldn’t be his mouth - Jimmy Novak’s mouth. A language Dean couldn’t hope to understand but one that felt deeply appropriate because Castiel didn’t think, didn’t know, if there was a word for it in English. There’s not one for it in Enochian either. But somewhere, at some time, there must of been a-- there might have been--

No. Not a feeling. Never a feeling.

Castiel didn’t feel, couldn’t feel, wasn’t made to feel.

Castiel was a messenger of God, not a messenger of himself, so instead he said, “We need to talk, Dean. Alone.”

And so they talked.

Doubt is like the rain man tries to outrun. The first droplet that they try to ignore and pass off as a phantom caress as it rolls down their cheek. Then another, squarely on the crown of their heads. Then another, and man moves and pulls at their collars. Then a cloud tears itself open and won’t ease until it’s satisfied and drenched the earth below.

Castiel’s doubt - it has a name now - is like this. He is the cloud ripping itself apart and he is also the earth becoming saturated. He is the man who won’t believe it’s happening and he’s the man racing, fruitlessly, against the pitter-patter of precipitation.

Lucifer doubted. Castiel envisions the bright light of the fall more often. It was luminous against the dark, velvet nothing between Heaven and Lucifer’s landing place. It haunts him, he supposes. He had never considered that word prior to his interactions with the Winchesters.

With Dean.

Lucifer fell because he doubted God. The story of which echoed between him and his siblings for centuries; he disobeyed, he questioned, he fell. Castiel stills at the mere idea of it, of burning like that. Lucifer’s screams reach him even eons later. Falling out of favor with God - the maker of the universe, his Father,  _ God  _ \- would incinerate Castiel from the inside out, destroying the very thing he is.

But...but, it can’t just be doubt, then, can it? Because Castiel doubts; not God, he hasn’t seen or heard God but he doesn’t  _ doubt  _ him. He doubts Heaven and its plans and worries about its insurrection. 

That must be a purer doubt, the kind of doubt Thomas had before he touched Christ’s hand, because Castiel’s still here. Still placing a healing hand on Dean Winchester’s face when he’s battered and bleeding. It’s a small hurt compared to Hell but it still deserves to be healed.

Dean looks at him sometimes, with eyes the shade of Eden, and Castiel’s grace settles within his vessel. Castiel didn’t realize that he  _ wasn’t _ settled. In those moments there are no doubts because Dean’s eyes are so steady on him. This worries Castiel as well.

Lucifer fell because he refused to serve man. But that’s not what God asked of them, is it? Castiel could swear the commandment was to love.

They remind him, again, that he serves Heaven. He doesn’t remember how they told him this. He hasn’t kept count of how many times they’ve told him this. They remind him where his loyalties lie. They remind him that doubt passes.

“There’s a right and there is a wrong here and you know it,” Dean’s voice rumbles like the first thunderstorm on newly created Earth. The soil turned dark and the air smelled fresher. Dean grabs him by the shoulder - Castiel lets him - and continues, “Look at me! You  _ know it _ .

“You were gonna help me once, weren’t you? You were gonna warn me about all this before they dragged you back to Bible Camp. Help me. Now.  _ Please _ .”

A wild kind of desperation takes hold of Dean’s expression. It widens his eyes, flares his nostrils. Castiel can sense, acutely, the adrenaline running through him, the speed of his heart pounding against his chest. Castiel’s palm burns hot and he wonders if Dean’s shoulder feels the same. 

Castiel doesn’t look at Dean directly - if he did he wouldn’t even bother to listen to the reasoning, he’d just  _ act _ , he’d make a leap. He stares at the wall over Dean’s shoulder, the shoulder he marked, “What would you have me do?”

Dean jumps at this, “Get me to Sam! We can stop this before it’s too late!”

“I do that,” Castiel dares to look at Dean, “we will all be hunted. We’ll all be killed.”

“If there’s anything worth dying for,” Dean’s gaze steadies as does his voice, “ _ this _ is it.”

Castiel stares at Dean -  _ into _ Dean, into his ever righteous soul - and falters. He couldn’t agree more, the grace inside of him rising up. If Jimmy were a weaker vessel he’d be cracking apart, firing brilliant blue from the inside out.

But the words of his siblings ring inside of him, for just a moment, and he hesitates. He shakes his head. And then,  _ then _ , Dean calls him spineless. Calls him soulless. If Castiel were a weaker angel - if Dean wasn’t  _ Dean _ \- he’d smite him just to humble him. Dean won’t even look at him, “You’re already dead. We’re done.”

“Dean,” The name comes out smaller than it should. 

If Dean could comprehend Castiel’s true self then he’d hear the tidal wave that Castiel tries to hold back - and he holds it back for  _ Dean’s _ sake. Not to overwhelm him. The tidal wave that could overtake him if Castiel ever revealed for a moment the vast, ever expanding nature of their bond. They might both drown.

“We’re done,” Dean says, their backs still turned to each other. 

Oh, the finality of it is ruinous. It cleaves into him and, if Jimmy were to ever break apart, it would be now. His grace thrashes against the inside of Jimmy’s skin, turning wild and unpredictable like a rogue wave. 

Castiel leaves before Dean can denounce him a third time. These words sting, these words  _ hurt _ . The venom in Dean’s voice, the way Castiel knows - because he’s the one who freed him from Hell - that Dean is  _ trying _ to choose the words that will hurt most. Castiel doesn’t chance another look at Dean’s soul before he goes; couldn’t bear to see if there’s more ire than love burning there now.

Before he’s swallowed up by that - the  _ hurt _ \- Castiel disappears into the heaven of an eternal Tuesday afternoon. The sky is blue as ever, if a little unnaturally bright. Fluorescent. The grace inside is still thrashing, wave upon wave. Unyielding.

“Is this betrayal?” Castiel asks aloud, looking up. His - Jimmy Novak’s - voice quavers, and Castiel would like nothing more than to slip out for a moment. To return to shapelessness, to return to intangible wings and limbs. To rejoin the heavenly host that could hold him and comfort him and remind him how to praise. To be formless and so thoroughly embedded in heaven that one could not see where he ended and the rest of the divine began. “Is this cowardice?” He asks.

Can God hear him? Will God hear him?

God. God, his father, the one who made him, the one one he worshipped. God, who he serves. God, who he loves. God, who he hasn’t seen or heard in millions of years. God who may have left the universe to be stewarded by his brothers and sisters. Oh, and look what they’ve done with that. Look at the destruction about to come.

Castiel bristles - and what is he doing about it? Hiding here in someone’s smoothed over, perfected memory. 

Is this what a good soldier does? Is this what a good angel does? Do they hide in heaven? Was Dean right? 

Tears leak from Jimmy’s eyes. Castiel touches the wetness and knows, emphatically, that this is rotten. That staying here is  _ wrong _ and more importantly that Dean - the righteous man, the good and aching soul that he touched and freed - was right.

Lucifer, Castiel realizes, fell because he chose himself. Continually; over and over again he  _ keeps _ choosing himself. It’s not doubt, at least not  _ solely _ , that causes the fall. It's selfishness. It’s the unwillingness to forgive or understand. It’s a caustic, self-serving hate.

If Castiel must fall, if he must die at all, he’d like for it to be opposite of that. 

Two heartbeats pass in the time that Castiel reappears and pins Dean to the wall. Dean, for all his harsh words, is relieved to see Castiel. And Castiel is glad that his soul is still warm, still full of love. Still Dean Winchester.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I can't believe that in 2020 Supernatural has taken over my life again. Consider leaving a comment (and if 15x20 emotionally ruined you please feel free to vent, because I'm in the same boat).


End file.
